"Yes, Earl. As a defense."
A bolster to the illusion, he thought, as the building passed beneath them far below. Once create a situation and props fell automatically into place. The curfew, tunnels connecting close-set buildings such as were to be found in the town, and in the open ground places which could shut out the darkness.
The raft dropped again, rose, headed slowly on its way. The lift was strong as was to be expected in a transport but that was all. Dumarest glanced at the sky judging the position of the suns. They had passed the zenith and were edging towards the horizon. It had been a long, monotonous flight and the woman was hungry.
"Can we land and eat, Earl?"
"We haven't the time."
"But-"
"Eat as we go. You can handle a raft, of course? Good. We'll take turns at the controls. Keep us high. I want to arrive with the suns behind us."
Two hours later the hutments came into sight.
Dumarest was at the controls and he veered the raft, watching, studying the terrain. The buildings were set in a row, another cross ways at the rear, one, larger, placed well to one side. Before them the ground was level, set with swollen bags set on tripods.
"They weren't here before, Earl." Lavinia looked up from her binoculars. "What are they?"
"Water containers. The hut crossways to the others is probably a latrine. The large one could house the man I spoke of."
"The mercenary?"
"If there is one, yes. He'll be using it as living quarters and command office. The range?" Dumarest scanned the terrain as he kept one hand on the controls. In the field of his binoculars the view skittered as the craft hit uneven air. "Look for a firing range of some kind. A flat space ending in a mound. There could be targets."
A moment, then she said, "Nothing like that, Earl. Not that I can see. There are some cairns set well to one side. A row of them."
"Any men?"
"A few. They are facing the cairns. They seem to be holding something."
"Guns." Dumarest lowered the binoculars. "Those heaps of stone are targets. Get ready now. We're going in."
It was madness, a display of naked audacity and yet, as Dumarest had pointed out, Gydapen had no reason to be suspicious beyond the range of normal caution. The arrival of the guns, as far as he knew, was still a secret. Lavinia, aware of his interest in her, intrigued as any woman would be in a similar situation, would naturally pay a visit. And, as a member of the Council, she had every right to inspect the proposed mining installation.
Things he had painstakingly explained during the journey, impatient with her objections.
"A spy!" she'd blurted. "You want me to act the spy. Just like Taiyuah!"
"He was right."
"But-"
"If you know a better way let me hear it. No? Then do as I say."
And now they were slanting down in the glare of the suns to skim over the buildings and come to a landing close beside the larger construction.
The man who came to greet them was a worker from Gydapen's estate but one who had undergone a subtle change. It was manifest in the way he stood, the tilt of his head, the something-a touch of arrogance?-in his eyes.
Yet his voice was gentle and his words polite.
"My lady! How may I serve you?"
"You know who I am?"
"Of course. You are the Lady Lavinia Del Belamosk. A member of the Council-"
"And a close friend of your master. Is he here?" Then, before the man could answer, she snapped, "Never mind. I was to have been met. Well, perhaps he has been delayed. While I'm waiting you will show me around."
She carried herself well, speaking with a curt imperiousness, forcing the man's attention. For a moment he hesitated, then bowed, extending a hand to help her descend from the raft. Dumarest watched as they headed towards the open space then, dropping over the far side of the craft, walked without hesitation towards the nearest hut.
As he'd suspected it was fitted as a dormitory, the floor of tamped dirt, the cots flimsy metal frames bearing thin mattresses and a single cover. There were no windows. Each end was pierced by a door. Lamps stood with a clutter of small items of a personal nature on narrow shelves. A table stood in the center of the floor ringed with benches. It carried a heap of plates, a container of water and a dozen earthenware cups. The air held the unmistakable odor of too many men living too close.
Nowhere could he see any sign of weapons.
The rear door opened on a narrow space faced with the hut set crosswise to the others. He had been wrong, about its purpose. Half was a cooking area with fires burning beneath metal plates on which stood containers of stew. The other half was locked. The latrine he found by its odor; poles set over a trench dusted with a chemical compound, the whole shaded by a camouflaged curtain. It lay well to one side and, at a thought, Dumarest checked the hut he had first entered. At the side of the rear door was a couple of lidded buckets-for use in case of need during the night.
Two men looked at him as he left the hut and moved to the next. He met their eyes.
"You! Who is in charge of these huts?"
"Sir?" One of them blinked.
"Are you deaf? Didn't you near me? Who is in charge of these huts? You?"
"No, sir." The man looked at his companion. "Jarl. I'm his helper."
"Helping him to do what-loaf?" Dumarest made his tone acid. "The huts are a disgrace. Dirt everywhere. Cots untidy. The tables unwiped-" He turned, scowling. "Let me see this one. Take the lead. Move!"
Shaken they obeyed. Dumarest examined the hut; finding it much like the other, his eyes counting beds as he pretended to find patches of dirt, fluff, drifted sand where no sand should be. Again there was no sign of weapons.
Leaving the two men inside the hut Dumarest stepped outside towards the rear, signaled at a small group which had just left the cookhouse, glared at them as they came to a halt.
"Slovenly. Haven't you been taught elementary drill? Well, haven't you?"
"Sir!" One of the men drew himself to attention.
"Good." Dumarest nodded at the man. "The rest of you fall out. Wait in that hut until I call for you. You-your name? Hoji? Tell me, Hoji, where are the weapons kept?"
A gamble. If the man knew he might unthinkingly give the direction. If he didn't then the question could be covered and no harm would be done.
"The weapons, sir?"
"The guns." Dumarest grunted as the man's eyes flickered to the rear of the cookhouse. "Not moved yet? Why not? Well, never mind. Call those men and have them report to the weapons-store. Move!"
Time gained for him to move to the door and send his knife probing into the lock. It was heavy, but basically simple. A click and it was open. As the men returned Dumarest threw wide the door.
Inside rested a heap of crates, some open. On the top of one rested a half-dozen guns together with boxes of ammunition.
"Those!" Dumarest pointed at the crates. "Load them into the raft standing before the huts. Hurry!"
Men accustomed to obey rarely hesitated if orders were given in a tone of authority. A fact Dumarest knew and had relied on. They didn't know who or what he was, but his voice held the snap of command and, to them, it was unthinkable that he should order without having the right.
Dumarest stepped back as the first crate was shifted. A gun fell from the loose pile and he picked it up, looking at the piece. It was cheap, crude, now cleaned of grease and fitted with a full magazine. He cocked it, watched the cartridges spill from the ejector, removed the magazine and, after clearing the breech, pulled the trigger.
As the harsh click faded a voice said, "Well, friend, what do you think of it?"
He was tall, slouched, his mouth scarred so that the upper lip was set in a permanent smile. He wore stained clothing frayed at wrists and collar, the leather bearing shiny patches and marks where badges could have been. His hair was dark, his eyes wells of coldness. In his right hand he held a compact laser.